


Not So Bad

by Hello_Spikey



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-01
Updated: 2012-09-01
Packaged: 2019-09-16 05:50:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,968
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16948212
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hello_Spikey/pseuds/Hello_Spikey
Summary: Two soldiers for the cause, working side by side, wishing the other dead. Spike presses the issue.





	Not So Bad

**Author's Note:**

  * For [elebridith](https://archiveofourown.org/users/elebridith/gifts).



> This is for  **elebridith**  who requested:  _Spike/Robin Wood please? Prompt: "Maybe he's not so bad after all"_
> 
> Takes place in a vague season 7, after "Lies My Parents Told Me". And lo, there was grudge-sex!

You couldn’t wrestle for your life against someone and not get an accurate picture of their body, and so, Spike reflected, he now knew Robin Wood’s body as intimately as he had known his mother’s. (Obviously, he wouldn’t be phrasing it that way.) He also felt like he’d had an unpleasant peek inside his head, what with the garage lined in crosses. There was thirsting for revenge and then there was making sure your revenge was close-quarters and tactile.  
  
Hands on, was our young Robin.  
  
Spike watched him gathering up wooden batons – the girls had been using them as practice swords. His fingertips made small walking motions down the shafts, shifting them together and then he tapped the bundle straight with one palm on the top. Very tactile. Spike would like to say he was thinking of those hands punching and strangling, but he wasn’t.  
  
Spike sat on the back stoop, watching Robin work by the garage. Spike was supposed to be sharpening stakes – dangerous occupation for a vampire. He’d stopped after two, figuring less vampiric hands could finish. The blade was sticking and he could sharpen a knife with the best of them. There were probably better places to sharpen a knife than right next to the man you had just beaten, but Spike could never play it safe. He always had to lean into the blade.  
  
Robin did his work methodically, not looking up, lest their gazes accidentally meet. Two soldiers for the cause, working side by side, wishing the other dead. It should stay that way, but Spike can’t stay quiet. “What would it take?” he asked.  
  
Robin’s eyes flashed to him very briefly, almost a flinch, like he couldn’t help it. Then the lid slammed down and he was back to methodically gathering weapons. “What?”  
  
“To get you to actually look at me,” Spike said.  
  
Robin’s lip curled up on one side. His eyes stayed on his work. “You could get a tan.”  
  
The slow way he drew the phrase out made it sound like an invitation. The steady scraping of Spike’s knife on the whet stone stopped and he stared openly at Robin, looking for another clue what he was thinking.  
  
And the impossible happened, Robin glanced up, a bit of a smile still lingering at the corners of his mouth. Then he dropped the last handful of batons in the bag, hoisted it on his shoulder, and walked into the garage.  
  
Spike’s eyes followed him. The last thing Spike should ever want to do was follow Robin Wood into another garage. So he folded the knife and did.  
  
Wood shook his head slowly. “What do you think you’re doing?”  
  
“Now you’re looking,” Spike said.  
  
The bag of staves hit the hard concrete floor with an almost musical clatter and Wood stalked up to Spike, shoulders first like he was pushing his way through water. When he was inches away he stopped, breathing a little harder than usual.  
  
Spike was constitutionally incapable of backing down. He lifted his eyebrows.  
  
“As far as I’m concerned,” Robin said, “You don’t deserve to be breathing.”  
  
“Oh goody. We agree on something.”  
  
Robin leaned back, just an inch or two, and cocked his head. “Are you looking to get beat down?”  
  
“Dunno,” Spike replied, and half shrugged. “Maybe I just want to watch you handle more shafts.”  
  
Robin’s palms hit Spike’s chest, flat and hard, a good solid push. Spike absorbed it, wondered briefly how much he didn’t mind getting hurt these days, and, when Robin’s eyes narrowed just a bit, he pushed back.  
  
There was no wall of crosses. No carefully prepared speeches. Just a fist closing around his wrist and another heading for his jaw. Spike ducked and twisted, and like dancers, they traded places. Robin still had hold of his wrist.  
  
“Never figured you for the hand-holding type,” Spike said.  
  
Robin jerked his arm back, bringing Spike close so he could get his other hand around his throat. Spike swallowed against the constriction, and said, huskily, “Yeah, that’s more how I pictured you.”  
  
“You don’t know anything about me,” Robin said.  
  
Spike leaned into the hold, pressed muscle against muscle until his lips were near Robin’s ear. “Fight a man to the death and you know all you need to.”  
  
And then he pressed a little bit more firmly, his thigh between Wood’s, lest he miss the point.  
  
Robin threw him. Spike hit a sturdy work bench loaded with weapons that clanged and fell together. He righted himself easily enough, smirked at the pissed off man, and turned to go on his way.  
  
A hard hand on his bicep stopped him. “You think you can just flirt with danger? Prod the old wound and walk away?”  
  
Spike smiled genuinely. “Well, I am a bit of a flirt.”  
  
“I’m not,” Wood said.  
  
Spike let his eyes slide down Wood’s muscular frame. “Promises, promises.”  
  
And then he was hurled onto the gritty garage floor. He laughed as he hit the concrete, something breaking a little loose in his thoughts. Yes, this is what he wanted.  
  
Robin’s shirt pushed back, up his arms and up his stomach, as muscle strained against muscle. The floor of the garage was stained dark with a slow leak of oil from decades of cars, not one catastrophic event, but a steady, even application, like the growth of tree-rings. It left the concrete gritty and oily at once. Like rolling around in cold Turkish coffee. They grasped and pulled and struggled, but somehow the fight collapsed in on them, and they were holding each other closer, grinding together, and their lips met in an angry, passionate kiss.  
  
Robin pulled back first, hissing a breath over wet lips. He grabbed Spike’s hips and pulled them firmly against his. “I fucking hate you.”  
  
Spike arched up against him, his throat long and exposed as he pressed his head back into the floor. With a sensual twist, he pulled his own shirt off, tossing it into the gritty darkness. “How about you stop talking about it and show me?”  
  
“Shit. You really are fucked up.”  
  
“Victorian upbringing.” Spike’s talented fingers went to work on Robin’s jeans, somehow unbuttoning and unzipping them without ever letting up the pressure of his cock pushing against Robin’s.  
  
Robin had to wrest those clever fingers away, take some control of the situation. He slammed Spike’s wrists into the concrete over his head. Spike just undulated in response, snake-like hips doing the work for him, shifting fabric out of the way with friction. If anything, it pissed Robin off more, and Spike almost laughed again, feeling how far over the edge he was pushing him.  
  
He wasn’t shocked when Robin let got of his wrists to punch him. And when the fist returned to backhand him, he turned into hit, catching the full force on his mouth. He licked the blood and chased the knuckles, planting a dirty, slurpy kiss.  
  
Robin put his hands around Spike’s neck then, and kissed again, squeezing firmly all the while. Spike kicked his boots off and wriggled until he could get his hands on his jeans to unbutton them.  
  
Getting skin on skin was of utmost importance just then, and Robin had a lot of hard, muscle-backed skin, richly dark and appetizing. It became a new sort of fight. Robin smacked him and pushed him back and pinned him, and Spike struggled and broke free and used every stolen moment to remove another barrier between them. Robin dropped the façade enough to kick off his jeans when they were down around his thick, meaty thighs.  
  
Let up from the floor by this reprieve, Spike wrapped his arms around Robin’s waist and lapped his tongue over the head of his dick.  
  
Robin smacked him hard, but Spike just took the head in his mouth and rolled it around. Then he was punched twice in the temple, until he saw stars and fell.  
  
Robin was back on top of him in an instant, kissing him hard, his hands on either side of Spike’s face. “You keep those fangs the hell away from me.”  
  
Spike licked his lips and nodded. That was good. That was perfect. He wasn't a stand-in for a living body. He saw himself in the way Robin looked at him, and that was exactly what he was: a vampire.   
  
He wrapped his legs around Robin and arched back. They scraped along the greasy floor and up against the thick wooden legs of the work-bench. Spike reached behind him, grabbing hold of the sturdy wood so he could anchor himself and lift against the hard body in front of him.  
  
With an intent expression, Robin pinned Spike’s wrists against the wood and pressed hard, grinding them into it. They were both flexing against each other, trying to get stimulation against their aching cocks. It was frustrating, and that made it better. Finally Robin reached down and lined himself up.  
  
It hurt, that Spike was expecting, even hoping for. It was a violent, tearing thrust, a substitution for the dusting he so richly deserved. He pressed into it. But it was also hot, almost burning, and he felt the heavy, fast pulse inside, life demanding its due in the silent flesh of death. That he hadn’t expected, though it absorbed all his attention now, the smell of blood, sweat, gasoline; the feel of wood, concrete, muscle, pulse.  
  
Robin grunted and pressed harder, like a stabbing, a twist of the knife. He was watching Spike intently for his reaction.  
  
Spike grabbed hold of the underside of the work bench and flexed his hips hard, fucking himself back on Robin, and incidentally jamming his cock hard into abdominal muscle, pelvic bones pressing, close but not quite enough.   
  
Robin looked enraged, his lips wide, his teeth barred. He thrust harder and harder. The workbench groaned and splintered. Spike flung himself forward, grabbing Robin instead of wood. His hands failed to find purchase at first, slipping in sweat on smooth skin, but then he was on, gripping the back of Robin’s biceps hard, and they were pistoning together, Robin kneeling, Spike riding him hard, in the center of the garage, until it got to be too much and Spike let himself fall over the edge, felt his whole body just pop like a soap bubble and spill out the pain, the anger, the frustration. He thought he’d never stop coming.  
  
And then he hit the cold, hard cement again, back-flat and air rushing out of him as Robin worked himself the last little bit to completion, groaning, eyes squeezed shut like he was in pain, huffing hard, sharp pants until he shuddered, his eyes open wide, and he fell heavily against Spike.  
  
After a few seconds, Robin rolled off of him and found somewhere else to look. They were both silent.  
  
Spike limped over to where his shirt had landed. “Well, that was a slap and a tickle.” He turned and saw his jeans next to wear Robin lay, head pillowed on one beefy arm, unashamed and gorgeous on the filthy floor. Getting dressed and leaving seemed somehow less urgent at that point. Spike dropped onto his ass next to Robin and pulled his jeans close, feeling the pockets for his cigarettes and lighter. “At the risk of sounding modest, I can’t quite figure out how I got you to fuck me instead of kill me.”  
  
“When you’re wrestling a guy,” Robin said, thoughtfully, “you can’t help but get a measure of him.” He rolled over and grabbed hold of Spike’s over-sensitive dick. He grinned at the hiss he made. “I felt this, and figured you weren’t such a bad guy, after all.”  
  
Spike decided he’d best not admit to the same thing. They still hated each other, after all.


End file.
